


Compatible

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Silly romantic nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: As Tarkin’s aide, you provide him with any service he needs professionally. Now, he wants more. If, indeed, you’ll fit together.





	Compatible

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone, but is also a prequel to ‘Faithful’.

The Grand Moff has been talking for several minutes and yet he seems never to come to the point. You have always gone out of your way to make his work on the Death Star as comfortable as possible, making an effort to take care of any minor disturbance before it can reach him. Now, in his office, you try to figure out what it is he wants you to understand without having to tell you up front. It’s impossible, no matter how hard you concentrate. He is pacing back and forth behind his desk. Slight colour has risen to his cheeks, a sign of considerable agitation.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you tell him, halting him in his tracks. “I don’t understand.” You cast him a glance of exasperation, and his eyes widen in turn, before narrowing suspiciously.

“You. Don’t. Understand.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry. You’ll need to speak plainly.” He seems to ponder that, then leans over his desk, both hands planted firmly on top of it.

“Very well, then.” He clears his throat. “I hope you are aware of the fact that I am very pleased with your service.”

“Thank you, sir.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “I enjoy assisting you in every way I can.” It is the truth. The Grand Moff is a hero and you aren’t worthy of cleaning his boots, and yet he has treated you with utmost respect since the day you were assigned to be his aide.

“I am pleased to hear this.” He draws a deep breath. “There is something I wish to enquire of you. A suggestion.”

You nod. Perhaps now you will finally hear what’s on his mind. He lifts a pointer, gesturing with it to the plans on the wall, giant prints of the battle station. They are artists’ renditions, paintings of a dream more than representations of reality. One day they will become reality, a glorious one. You have always enjoyed looking at them.

“The construction of this station will go on for years,” he says. Everyone knows this, and as soon as you nod, he continues. “I am tired of having nothing but quarters to return to at the end of the day.”

“Sir?” Everyone has quarters, and his ought to be splendid. If they are not, you will speak to the officer in charge immediately. This is an issue you can solve. “Allow me…”

“Wait.” He waves a long, thin digit in front of your face. “My accommodation is more than adequate, but it is severely lacking a certain quality. I desire a home.”

“A home, sir?”

The discourse to come is a long one, uttered with the certainty of a well-practiced speech. You wonder how many times he has repeated these words to himself before saying them.

“My requirements are hardly unreasonable,” he begins. “A hot cup of tea, shared in companionable silence while reading, or engaging in light conversation on a non-work-related topic, a warm bed and, occasionally” – he clears his throat –  “occasionally, when there is mutual interest, intercourse.”

He stares at you with intent during this entire speech, but at the mention of the bed, you can no longer meet his gaze. This is not a topic he should be discussing with you.

“Forgive me, sir, but to me it sounds like you need a wife.” The idea is surprisingly repulsive, and you realize you’ve come to regard his well-being as your own responsibility. Regardless, a wife would seem to be the perfect solution to what appears to be an issue of loneliness.

He throws his arms about, an annoyed gesture. “I don’t want a wife.”

The relief that washes over you is entirely improper. “No?”

“I can do perfectly well without the social complications such a union would inevitably bring in its tow, all the family obligations, and relatives vying for favours, not to mention the cumbersome procedure of obtaining said spouse.”

In that case, the Imperial Navy already has a solution to his problem, one as old as the issue itself. “You could hire a…”

“I am aware of the fact that we do have a special category of personnel for intimate services. I am not looking for mere physical mechanics. This is a question of trust. Furthermore, I desire an arrangement that would be both long-term and exclusive.”

“I am sure you could get someone straight from training, sir, who would see the obvious advantages of staying with one client for her entire career.”

He sighs. “Are you listening at all?”

You nod, feeling stupid. “I’m doing my best, sir. Perhaps there is someone else whom you could discuss this matter with, someone more apt?” You tilt your head towards the door.

“Stay. I’ll get to the point.” He sighs. “I could have my tea delivered from the kitchen, small talk on any subject provided by a number of brilliant men and women, a trained courtesan in my bed and it would all be entirely professional and carried out at the highest level of quality, and it would be completely and utterly devoid of any personality, pitifully lacking the one trait I do find unnegotiable in a companion.”

He appears exhausted for a second, then trains his hard gaze on you, clearly waiting for your reaction.

“And that is, sir?”

“Devotion.”

“I see, sir.” You lower your gaze, staring at the desk as you speak. “In that case, I don’t know if there is a solution at all. I doubt anyone could live up to your standards.” You have failed him.

“Have you heard nothing?” He sounds angry and you flinch. When he speaks again, his voice is milder, the words more precise. “The desired interactions as such are of minor consequence and skill comes with practice. It is the mind-set I am looking for.” He pauses, and you venture a glance at his face. “You are devoted to me.”

Your cheeks heat and your head starts swimming as soon as the words are said. You dare not believe they mean what he seems to imply. It’s too much, too close to your daydreams. “Sir, do you mean to suggest that I –“

A gesture of his hand stops your rush of words. “I will not rush you,” he says calmly. “Consider it carefully. Know that, at present, you are the one acceptable candidate.”

He looks pleased with himself, now freed of his burden. Suddenly you are the one staggering under its weight. You swallow audibly, filled with warring emotions. On one hand, the kind of trust such a request implies, on the other, he is asking you to give up what little independence you still have.

“I hope I have not misjudged you,” he says in a cool, professional voice, as if you are discussing a work-related document. “Your current duties would remain, regardless. Of course, if you find the entire proposition disagreeable, we will decide this conversation never took place.”

“I don’t… find it disagreeable, sir. I just need a little time to think. What you are asking, sir, it’s…”

“Surely it’s not so vastly different…”

“I’m perfectly amenable to tea and reading… this is often how I enjoy spending my evenings. And I could perhaps get used to sharing your quarters.”

You know you could. Just the prospect of spending more time with the man you adore makes you giddy. What holds you back is fear of failure. You have always been a perfectionist, but how can you hope to satisfy the Grand Moff in this?

“It’s the sex that makes you hesitate, then,” he decides and staples his fingers. “As I said, this isn’t necessarily a large proportion time-wise. I do insist it become a part, eventually. I would allow you time to get used to the idea.”

You stare at his fingers, imagining them gliding over your skin. The idea isn’t bad, you realise, but it will take more than a little time to get used to. Never have you thought about your superior this way, at least not consciously. Or, not often, at least. He does have a commanding presence that makes your heat beat a little faster whenever he’s close. Which hasn’t been a lot, but now…

“Having, ah, intercourse would be a part of this arrangement.” You say it mostly for your own benefit, to make sure there’s no room for embarrassing misunderstandings.

“That is my ultimate wish, indeed. Preferably it should occur often rather than seldom, but the frequency is negotiable. I would hope for it to eventually become an evidence of affection, rather than a habit upheld for the sake of providing an agreed-upon service. I am prepared to wait.”

“Thank you, sir. I –“

“There’s no rush. Take the time you need, and then let me know your answer.” He gets up and stands by your side, near the door.

It would be so easy to just leave and be let off the hook, but you know already what your answer will be, and delaying will only lead to more agony. Still, he speaks again before you can.

“We could have these quarters rearranged,” he says. “You will need a space of your own. If you decide to remain with me.”

“Thank you. I would like that very much.” If you let me stay.

“I want to make it clear that I do not ask you to give up your independence.” A quick glance at him, and he continues. “I am not looking for a slave.” He is dead serious.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” You look at your hands, suddenly feeling nervous again. “I’m used to living on my own, but I would very much like to try this… companionship.” You look up at him at the last word and is taken aback by the light in his eyes.

“Excellent,” he says and smiles, then takes your hand between his. “I propose a month of probation. If, after that, you agree to remain in your extended duties, I expect the arrangement to be a lasting one. Are you agreeable to this?”

“I am.”

***

 “I am just me, and you…”

“I am a man who wants you very much.” You are in bed and he runs his hand along your side, fingers barely grazing the skin. You bare your throat for more. His fingers graze the skin slowly, then his mouth follows, kissing and nibbling a trail to your collarbone. Nimble fingers unbutton the tunic.

His gentleness fills you with wonder. Grand Moff Tarkin is an immensely powerful man, strict and stern in his appearance, hard to please. Having him here, so close, doing these things to you, makes your head spin.

“Relax,” he says in his clipped, precise way that makes it come out as a command however intended. His smile is almost audible, adding a hint of warmth that makes you smile in turn and melt into his hands that continue to caress you.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, “so soft”. His digit circles your nipple, then cups the tit, squeezing gently, bouncing just a little. Then he lowers his head and takes the stiffening peek between his lips. You arch into him while he holds you back efficiently with a hand on your belly. It trails lower still, down one side, almost to your knee, then up on the silky inside of your thigh, stopping just short of your sex before it begins its journey again in the opposite direction.

You whine.

He repeats the painstakingly slow procedure once more, while you squirm, chasing that elusive touch. Then he flings a leg over yours to keep you from writhing. The next time you just lie there, begging softly, your breaths coming out in sobs. Then, finally, the base of his hand presses against your core, rubbing slightly until you know you’ll come from that alone. Then you feel a finger touch between your thighs, and a foot nudging you to spread your legs wider. The tip of a finger slides over your entrance, probing, questing. You have to bite your lip not to just pull him in. Ever so slowly he slips inside, then withdraws, gathering wetness up to your clit, rubs there, too gently. Then, without warning, the finger, no, two, plunge into you again. All the way, then out, then in again in a series of piston-like stabs. Then his thumb is on your clit and his fingers are so long and you can’t concentrate and your world whitens out in the most powerful climax you had in years.

When you open your eyes, he is still there. Watching you, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes are mild, filled with some elusive emotion that is gone much too quickly, but you can’t bemoan it as what replaces it is raw desire. He is hard against your thigh. If you’d just tip onto your side, you’d feel him pressing into you from behind.

“May I touch you, sir?” you ask softly.

“Next time. I believe I’m going to take you now.” He shifts to rest between your legs.

You bend them, accommodating him, and with a low groan he sinks into you to the hilt. He stays like that as you clench involuntarily around him.

“Please,” you say. “I need –”

He snaps out of his quiet mood and sets a harsh pace, jaw set. It is wonderful and perfect at first, then it becomes both too much and not enough. He stops abruptly, his hand pinching the base of his cock. When he enters you again it is with long, languid strokes, lazily filling you up, then withdrawing equally slowly, only to fill you again, steadily with controlled and measured movements that have you whimpering for more. He tops that with a series of quick, shallow thrusts, then he holds still again. He brings his lips right against your ear and whispers, “Come”.

His own climax is silent, his pleasure betrayed only by a small groan drenched out by your keening cry as passion comes over you.

***

“There is no need,” he says in the morning when you tentatively brush against his erection. “Occasionally is what I stipulated in the contract and I do not intend to overstep a condition by requesting sexual relations in an untimely fashion.”

“Please, I would suggest changing the wording to “regularly.”

“I would be delighted. I admit to finding myself reluctant mostly not to burden you overly or frighten you off with ceaseless demands.”

“I would actually prefer the contract to say “frequently”, but then you’d declare me a wanton slut.”

“Such language.” He delivers a swat to your behind. “Turn onto your side.”

Still slippery from the night, all he needs is for you to raise your leg ever so slightly, and he slips inside. It is a quick affair with both of you on the brink already.

You awake from your slumber by the lights increasing on his command.

“I though the Grand Moff would never be lounging in bed.”

“Correct. The Grand Moff would not. However, a man who has just spent an enjoyable night with a new lover is very prone to doing just that.”


End file.
